


In too deep it's unbelievable

by Neyiea



Series: You're still my favourite taboo [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: All the other fun tags that Jerome Valeska brings to the table, Consensual Underage Sex, Harley!Bruce, Loss of Virginity, M/M, POV Alternating, Possessive Behavior, Size Difference, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Jerome found him, and now Jerome gets to keep him.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Series: You're still my favourite taboo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124822
Comments: 28
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amvris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amvris/gifts).



> Zero excuses just take this and run. 
> 
> Title from Irresistible by Temposhark, yet again.

Jerome presses a kiss into his hair, and the insistent whispering in the back of Bruce’s head that said losing himself with Jerome—even if he softly pet Bruce’s hair and kissed him sweetly and had said that he’d _been waiting for him_ —was a bad idea begins to lessen. Bruce isn’t who he thought he was, and he doesn’t know who he really is, not anymore. All he has left is preconceived notions; vague ideas of what his long-gone parents would have wanted him to be. Maybe he would have turned out that way, if they’d never been killed, but that path is impossible, now. 

It had been impossible even before Bruce killed Ra’s al Ghul. 

Bruce wants to learn about himself, and try new things, and not feel like he’s being crushed under the constant weight of people’s expectations—his own being the worst of all—and he feels like he might actually have a chance at that with Jerome. 

Maybe the true start of this unforeseen fall had happened even before his and Jerome’s first kiss. Even if at the time Bruce had thought he could not care less about Jerome’s opinion, maybe it happened when Jerome told Bruce to his face that Bruce _wasn’t a disappointment to him._

Jerome helps him up off of the floor and grins as he straightens out Bruce’s shirt, his hands lingering in a way that manages to feel both possessive and fond. 

Bruce’s jaw aches, but it’s a good ache, one that had been soothed by the soft kiss which Jerome had unexpectedly planted on his mouth.

Bruce wants to ache _everywhere_ and be kissed _everywhere._

Jerome slings an arm around his shoulders to pull him close and settles his big, warm hand right over Bruce’s heart. Then, with evidently no desire to make a subtle exit, he opens up the stall door so that they can walk out at the same time. 

Bruce feels his face go hot and he leans against Jerome, eyes pinned to the floor so that he doesn’t have to see whatever knowing looks might be cast in their direction. Tommy never left together with him after they fooled around in a bathroom. Tommy never kissed him, even when Bruce was sure that he was sending all the right signals. Tommy never approached him to dance until he was halfway drunk, and he never initiated the more tender touches that Bruce longed for most of all. 

Jerome isn’t like Tommy.

Jerome isn’t like anyone that Bruce has ever met.

Bruce tentatively lifts a hand up to rest against the one that Jerome has splayed possessively over his chest. He casts a quick look up from the corner of his eye to find Jerome beaming down at him. Jerome catches his gaze, and then darts in for another kiss, as if now that he knows he has permission to do so he has no intentions of ever stopping. 

And Bruce, so starved for this kind of attention and affection, has no intentions of stopping him.

In fact, as Jerome kisses him, Bruce’s mind can’t help but trace back to other things, like the feeling of Jerome’s hand delving under his pants, two of his fingers sliding down the cleft of Bruce’s ass in a way that had filled him up with an electric charge. Like what Jerome had said about fucking him, sitting Bruce on his cock and playing with his nipples. Like what Jerome had said about filling him up and making him nice and warm inside.

Bruce wants that, but he doesn’t want it in whatever ramshackle hideaway that Jerome is probably using immediately post break-out, which is probably crawling with Maniax and maybe even other, more literal vermin. Maybe Bruce doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on, considering what he’s done in club bathrooms, but he’s pretty sure a high-end club is at least slightly more sanitary than an actual abandoned building or warehouse. 

“I’ll come away with you,” he breathes against Jerome’s mouth. “But will you come home with me, first? I want—” His hand on Jerome’s tightens. He leans to press more heavily against Jerome’s lips. “I want—”

He wants so much all at once.

“Not sure how your butler’ll feel if I make you scream in your bed all night.”

A familiar ache cuts through the heat that’s lighting Bruce up from the inside. 

“He’s not there, not anymore,” Bruce says lowly. The only reason Jerome is able to hear him over the music is because he’s already so close. “I told you before, nothing and no one is waiting for me.”

Except for you, he adds in silent wonder.

Jerome’s eyebrows furrow—he has questions, Bruce can tell, and he’s probably not going to let Bruce ignore them once he starts asking—but then his expression brightens. He smacks a playful kiss against Bruce’s cheek and then leans in, nipping lightly at the shell of Bruce’s ear before whispering,

“I suppose I could slip away for the rest of the night, since you need me so much.”

A journey through the dim club, a passing over of keys, a slightly-too-enthusiastic claim that Jerome was good to drive paired with a sly reminder that he’d never let himself get pulled over by the cops anyway. A ride back to Wayne Manor that was fast enough that Bruce, even though he was used to his own not-entirely-relaxing driving, had felt his heart race. Breathlessly darting out before the car was even fully parked, being chased up the steps to the front door, unlocking and opening and rushing inside but getting caught and pulled and turned around. Kissing in the foyer, on the stairs, in the hallway. The isolated feeling that had settled over Wayne Manor, _over him_ , being lost in waves upon waves of sparking heat. 

Then Jerome pins him to the door of his bedroom and yanks down Bruce’s swapped shirt again. He moves quickly, sucking a nipple into his mouth while he pinches the other hard between two of his fingers. 

Bruce squeals again, this time even louder than he’d been in the club. The sound pierces the heavy silence of the house and even though there is no one but them to hear him he still finds himself flushing in embarrassment. 

Jerome sucks harder while making a rough, encouraging noise that makes Bruce distantly think that maybe he doesn’t mind if Bruce is loud, if Bruce is needy, if Bruce wants so much so fast. Bruce’s hands dig into his hair, unable to stop the panting and whining that falls from his mouth when Jerome’s teeth purposefully graze against him, the threat of a bite lingering sweetly. Jerome backs away only far enough to blow air across the wet peak, and then lavishes the attention of his mouth on the other nipple while his fingers grab and twist the one he’d been sucking. It’s all sharp-heat and pleasure-pain, and Bruce finds himself aching and hard even before Jerome has had a chance to touch his dick again. 

He hadn’t known that he would like something like this. Hadn’t known that something that stung and hurt could feel good, too, as long as it was carried out a certain way. 

He’s already learning new things about himself. 

“Jerome,” he gasps, one hand continuing to wind into red hair as Jerome’s teeth gently, briefly, clamp around him before his mouth moves, tracing a path of wet kisses up to Bruce’s neck where he bites again, this time much less gently. Bruce’s other hand fumbles behind him, blindly searching for the doorknob. 

“What is it, baby,” Jerome drawls, laving the flat of his tongue over the skin that he’d bitten. “Don’t want me to leave any marks or somethin’? It’s a bit late for that.” 

Bruce’s fingers twist in Jerome’s hair tight.

“No,” he murmurs, craning his head to the side to give Jerome more room. His other hand finally grips the doorknob behind him and he swings the door inward. “Leave more.”

Jerome muffles a heated curse against his skin, and then his teeth dig into Bruce again. There is no gentleness at all this time, but one of his hands has crept up the back of Bruce’s neck to slide into his hair the way that Bruce likes best, and somehow that makes it all better, hotter; the pain and the tenderness melding together into one sensation that makes Bruce’s heart flutter and his knees weak. He begins to step into his room and Jerome enthusiastically follows after him, intent on sticking close, as if—

One hand is splayed possessively on Bruce’s bare back, the other lightly playing with his hair, Jerome’s lips sliding over his in yet another kiss. 

—as if he really does want this just as badly as Bruce does.

And it feels so good, to be wanted so wholly. 

Jerome’s fingers twist into the little bow at Bruce’s back, eagerly looping one of the ends between them. He tugs, and the bow comes undone. He happily murmurs under his breath, “Just like opening up a present,” and then Bruce slides the red fabric the rest of the way off. 

They stumble towards the bed, hands reaching and grabbing and pulling. Off goes Jerome’s coat, and his shirt, and Bruce’s belt, all littering the floor and forgotten as soon as they are discarded. The back of Bruce’s legs finally hit his bed, and his hands scramble to undo Jerome’s pants again, feeling pleasantly feverish as he feels the firm outline of Jerome’s cock against his fingers, just as hard as Bruce is. Then Jerome pushes him back and he lands with a surprised huff, propping himself up on his hands to watch as Jerome hurriedly unlaces his boots and kicks them off before his swift fingers undo the ties to Bruce’s own shoes and pull them off of him. 

They kick off socks and strip away pants, and then Jerome is hovering over him, the both of them almost completely bare. Bruce’s stomach is twisting with nervous anticipation while his heart thrums with ardent yearning. He lifts up a hand to run his fingertips through the fine spattering of red hair present on Jerome’s chest before tracing down, down the muscular torso. The hair disappears and reappears below his navel, the narrow trail of it gradually becoming thicker before it is lost behind Jerome’s boxers. 

Bruce, sure that he is burning white-hot inside, wonders if it would be possible for him to take Jerome so deeply into his mouth and throat that his nose would be buried in the hair around the base of his cock. Wonders if he could stay like that, being adoringly praised and having his hair lovingly petted as Jerome mercilessly fucked his face. Wonders how sore he’d feel afterwards, how well-used, how hard from the mere act of accepting all that Jerome had to give him. 

“Tits out is a good look for you,” he echoes Jerome’s previous sentiment back to him, although his voice is somewhat strained from how turned on he is at the sight of Jerome shirtless above him. 

“Really?” Jerome smirks at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There is more frantic kissing, and biting, and hands ripping off Bruce’s underwear—the inside of them painted with Bruce’s dried cum—and then two fingers shoving inside of Bruce’s mouth. He sucks on them devotedly and squirms, thinking about Jerome’s cock, thinking about what it had felt like inside of him, thinking about how much he wants it again. 

“My pretty little slut,” Jerome croons and Bruce whines, cock twitching, sucking Jerome’s fingers deeper into his mouth. “You’re so eager to have your holes filled, aren’t you?” Bruce nods, fluttering his lashes and looking up at Jerome through them in a way that he’d come to realize over the blur of the past several weeks generally made people lean closer towards him. “Tell me, darlin’, have you ever had anything in your ass before; fingers, tongue, a precious little toy—” Jerome’s fingers pull out of his mouth and delve down. “—or a hard cock?” His fingertips, drenched in Bruce’s spit, reach underneath of Bruce to slide against his cleft. 

“Fingers,” Bruce answers breathlessly, “just my fingers.” Just two fingers, even, in what had felt like a very daring experiment the last time that he and Tommy had gotten each other off. It hadn’t necessarily felt good, but neither had sucking cock the first time that he’d tried it. 

“I won’t shock you too much, then.” Jerome plants a kiss against Bruce’s wet mouth and drives the first finger inside. 

Bruce gasps, muscles immediately clenching, mind an endless litany of holy fuck, holy fuck, _holy fuck—_

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Jerome’s finger withdraws partway before pressing in again, even deeper than before. “I’m gonna have to open you up for me, baby doll, or you’ll never be able to take my cock.” Out it drags, in it slides, already feeling like so much. “You’ve gotta _relax_ Bruce, it’s just one finger.” 

“Your hands are bigger than mine.” Much bigger, much rougher, much more dangerous. Hands that have ended lives, that have even tried to end his life, are now relentless in their pursuit to drive Bruce crazy. Somehow that makes the entire situation even sexier. “You’ve got—you’ve got thick fingers.”

“ _Ha._ I’m so touched that you noticed, Bruce.” Jerome’s grin is wild, his eyes glinting mischievously. “You know what else about me is thick?”

“Everything.” His arms and his thighs and his dripping dick. “It’s all—it’s all big.” Bruce isn’t dainty, and Jerome only has a few inches on him in terms of height, but their physiques are contrasting. Bruce built more for speed, Jerome more for strength. Bruce knows that he’s strong and more than capable of defending himself, but in comparing himself to Jerome he feels delicate, boyish, flustered. “The biggest thing about you is your smile, though,” he adds, because Jerome’s got that too-pleased expression and looks about ready to say something absolutely filthy. “You should kiss me with it.”

Jerome very obligingly does so, licking into Bruce’s mouth as he fucks into him with a single finger. When they part Bruce’s lips stay slack and open, and for a moment he wonders if Jerome is going to spit into his mouth again.

Instead he sucks on a nipple while trying to press a second finger inside.

It’s not wet enough, it’s too much, Bruce means to tell Jerome that he has lube in his bedside table—it was difficult to think about how much you hated yourself in your waking, lonely moments when you had a slick hand around your own dick—but all that comes out is a cry when Jerome sucks so hard that Bruce is sure he’s going to leave a sizable hickey. When his mouth detaches itself he flips Bruce over—face down, ass up, back arcing, legs spreading—and spits against his hole. 

Bruce jerks, fists clenching into the sheets beneath him. 

“Jerome,” he whines. “Please, please, I want you.”

Jerome presses a kiss to the base of his spine. He doesn’t spit again, but Bruce can feel saliva drooling out of his mouth, slicking the rim of his hole, dripping down his perineum. It’s gross and it’s hot, and when Jerome’s two fingers shallowly breach him again he moans, trying to rock onto them, trying to take them deeper.

“Such a good boy,” Jerome purrs, and Bruce’s wildly pounding heart twists. Good boy, good boy, _good boy_ , echoes in his mind, almost-frantic. “Asking for what you want so nicely.” His rough, scarred lips trace a trail up Bruce’s spine while his fingers begin to drag in, out, in, out. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll give you everything that you need,” he promises. 

And Bruce actually believes him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jerome is feeling the _L Word_ for his future partner-in-crime.

Bruce opens up for him, slow but steady, first only with the aid of their combined spit, but by the time a third finger started coming into play Bruce had somehow managed to find the words to tell Jerome about the lube in his bedside table. He’d flipped Bruce around onto his back, then, beyond pleased to see that the flush of Bruce’s cheeks was mirrored by the flush of his still-hard cock. 

Jerome wonders if what he’s currently feeling is _ecstasy._ A sense of euphoria has been building up inside of him without the assistance of any amphetamines, and the closest comparison to his present excitement that he can think of is, of course, being laid on his back in the maze of mirrors with Bruce hovering over him; brutal and vengeful and unspeakably gorgeous with Jerome’s blood spattered across his clenched fists. 

Maybe being around Bruce whenever he lets himself go is just like that. 

Bliss. 

Jerome will find out for certain, soon enough. 

Lovely little darlin’, Jerome thinks as Bruce squirms and shudders on his soaking fingers. Eager to be ruined by me. Ruined for anyone else.

Ready to be taken away and willingly revolutionized. Ready to once again face the reflection of himself which he had seen in the maze and been so obviously unnerved by. Ready to give into the looming dark that was housed so deeply within him that even Jerome, so in tune with the hidden darkness of others, had been taken by surprise when he’d caught a glimpse of it. Ready, at long last, to let it out.

_That’s it, let it out, let it out._

Ready to take his rightful place as Jerome’s treasured consort. 

Bruce leans into his kisses and whimpers under his teeth and moans so prettily whenever Jerome crooks his fingers inside of him. Utterly perfect. Absolutely adorable. Even better than Jerome’s most frantic, filthy fantasies. Bruce seems so delicate laid out underneath him, like something that could easily be broken, even though Jerome knows that beneath the soft, beguiling surface was a core of steel with razor-edges sharp enough to cut down to the bone. But Bruce hasn’t entirely grown into himself or his incredible potential, not yet, still firmly in the grip of precious adolescence no matter how grown up he thought that he was.

Jerome wonders if, when he fucks him, he’ll be able to press a hand low on Bruce’s belly and feel the outline of his own cock. He wonders if that would get Bruce off, the feeling of Jerome touching himself while inside of him. He had seemed so into their size difference, even if he’d changed the subject to Jerome’s smile quickly, as if Jerome would just forget how horny Bruce looked when he talked about how _big_ Jerome was. 

“You take everything so well,” Jerome praises, because he can tell that Bruce loves it; loves being petted and adored and doted on. “You were just made to be loved on, huh?” Jerome’s not used to softness, but he can acclimatize to it, since the boy of his dreams enjoys it so much.

And since he likes petting Bruce’s hair, anyway, ruffling those soft curls under his hand and calling Bruce a _good boy_ or _darlin’_. Bruce obviously loves every little pet-name, but he seems especially weak for those. 

And every single thing that Bruce is weak for, Jerome takes note of, because everything that Bruce takes delight in can be used to stitch them closer together. 

Bruce hadn’t tried to leave him behind again—a fact which was more than capable of making Jerome’s heart race all on its own—and he never will if Jerome has any say in it. He’ll give Bruce everything that he wants and needs, so that Bruce’s thoughts linger just as ardently on him as Jerome’s had lingered obsessively on Bruce. They’ll make a good team. A perfect pair. An immovable object and an unstoppable force melding together to decimate absolutely everything that stands against them. They’ll paint the town crazy, bringing down Gotham as it is and turning it into something new. It was only fitting that Bruce had a hand in Gotham’s transformation, after all, seeing as he was its _Prince._

Jerome can hardly wait to unleash him upon the city.

He’ll be such a sight to behold. Spectacular. Transfixing. Irresistible. Even better than in the maze. 

But for now— 

Jerome shoves three fingers all the way inside and bites a bloody mark into Bruce’s thigh, loving the way that Bruce’s hands twist in his hair not to pull him off but to press him closer, as if happy to have his skin split apart by Jerome. He feels somewhat dizzy with the implications that Bruce might, possibly, be into knife-play.

Which really makes their few turns about each other all that much more sexy, in hindsight. 

Bruce really is so pretty when he bleeds. He’s pretty when he has blood on him, period. Whether it’s his own. Whether it’s someone else’s. The sight of bright red against his skin is fitting in some intrinsic way. It’s like he was made to rip into the world with his bare hands. Crafted to be the downfall of _something_. Forged to bring about ruination. 

A wild divinity who Jerome would be more than pleased to worship upon any makeshift altar. 

“Think you’re ready, baby doll?” He swipes his tongue against his teeth, chasing the copper taste of Bruce’s blue-blood, heart thrumming inside of his chest when Bruce so sweetly answers,

“Yes, yes, please.”

Jerome’s fingers slide out of him and Bruce makes a curious noise, as if he’s upset to be empty. Jerome shudders at the sound of it, not composed enough in the moment to fake being unaffected. Despite the level of control that he projects he’s been gradually unravelling ever since it became clear that he wouldn’t have to actually steal Bruce away in order to keep him. 

They get under each other’s skin so easily.

They really are perfect for each other.

Jerome has fleeting thoughts of Bruce—artful white greasepaint and darkly line eyes, bloody fists tearing into someone without remorse, all while wearing a cute little number that Jerome had picked out especially for him—as he lines himself up with his warm, wet hole. 

“Jerome,” Bruce breathes, arms looping around Jerome’s shoulders; welcoming, accepting, _charming_. The unexpected, tender nature of the gesture washes over him and leaves him momentarily weak. It feels good, to be wanted so wholly. “Jerome.” He tucks his face into Jerome’s neck, nipping at skin as if he’s contemplating giving Jerome a bruise of his own. “ _Jay_.”

Jerome sinks into him fully and Bruce makes a high, lewd sound, his entire body trembling. There’s been so much buildup to get him ready that Jerome feverishly wonders if he’ll cum right away and then cry sweet, oversensitive tears as Jerome continues to fuck him until he’s full and dripping. He retreats and rocks into Bruce, shallowly at first, listening to the sounds that he’s making and feeling the way that Bruce’s nails are clawing against his back, leaving behind welts instead of bruises. 

Jerome likes it. Jerome loves it. 

Jerome can’t get enough of him.

“That’s it, Bruce,” he hisses through laboured breaths, pulse jumping at the way Bruce clenches around him. “You feel so good. You’re perfect for me.” Bruce’s nails dig deeper into him and Jerome groans, rolling his hips sporadically. “I knew you would be.” He’d known ever since the maze. “You’re mine,” he says, snapping his hips forward, starting to find a steady rhythm. He runs a hand into Bruce’s hair, guiding his head back so that Bruce can no longer hide his face in Jerome’s neck. “You’ve always been mine.”

Bruce’s glossy eyes meet his, and he’s so beautiful like this that Jerome cannot stop himself from kissing him again. He feels frantic, desperate, as he plunges a hand between them so that he can roughly tug on Bruce’s pretty pink cock as he fucks him. Bruce’s ensuing cry only makes him feel more wildly, wonderfully out of control; a car about to crash, a bomb about to detonate. Together they are a lit match and a stick of dynamite. Together they are wrath and ruin. Jerome swallows the sounds Bruce makes against his mouth and thinks, mine, mine, _mine._

He can feel Bruce’s unsteady, hitching breaths gusting against him, can feel his lips moving like he’s whispering under his breath. It’s hard to make out anything underneath the wet slide of his hand and the slap of skin-on-skin, but when Jerome strains his ears he can hear,

“Yours, yours, yours.”

Molten heat floods him, surging in his veins. His mind spins and his thoughts scatter. All there is left is him and Bruce and the swift, steady climb. No city to turn crazy, or lackeys to order around, or frightening new faces that realized his insurrectionary ambitions for Gotham were visionary. 

Bruce’s hips roll up to meet him, his legs tangle tightly around Jerome’s hips, his nails must have Jerome’s blood underneath of them by now considering how much Jerome’s back is stinging. He wonders if any of the deepest scratches will scar.

Hot-motherfucking- _damn._

He wants that, to be laid claim to by Bruce. Marked as his just like Bruce was marked as Jerome’s. To belong and to own in equal measure. They could have been each other’s endings, but instead they’ll become something even greater. Something that the world has never seen before. 

This is the beginning of everything. The beginning of _them_.

His hand slips off Bruce’s dick and presses hard against the silky skin above it and immediately Bruce’s entire body clamps up. He cums hard on Jerome’s cock, practically screaming in Jerome’s ear, his nails tearing into his back, his muscles contracting around Jerome in a way that makes his vision go fuzzy. He’d had fleeting thoughts of Bruce reaching his peak first and continuing to fuck into him until he was crying oversensitive, overwhelmed tears, but the reality is that Bruce’s climax is the tipping point to his own, and Bruce hasn’t even gone lax when Jerome crests and falls into him, pressing messy, sloppy kisses against any part of Bruce’s face that he can reach as the building pleasure inside of him overflows like a dam bursting. 

He grinds into Bruce until it’s too much, until he can’t, until his softening dick slips out of him. Bruce mewls softly, precious thing that he is, and his hands lift up to the back of Jerome’s head to guide him into a proper kiss. 

And Jerome, of course, gives him exactly what he wants, just like he will from now on. 

Because it’s what he wants, too.


End file.
